


despondency

by thelabours



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Gen, M/M, dw there's a (kinda maybe not) happy ending, i can't tell, is it angst, or is it just poetically sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 03:26:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9104611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelabours/pseuds/thelabours
Summary: Oikawa has a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad day.





	

Sometimes Oikawa feels small. He’s over six feet but some days he feels no taller than six centimeters. 

His skin feels stretched tight over his organs, his stomach, his kidneys, his liver. Over his bones, his tendons, his nerves, and capillaries.

His limbs feel like lead, moving them taking more energy that would serve better to shut his thoughts up.

His lungs feel inept, always gasping for air that’s all around him, never taking in enough to breathe easy, just enough to make him work for it, for labored breaths that sustain him, his indecent existence.

Some days all he wants to do is step into his bathtub and sink to its bottom, coming out to see the water turned inky like the universe that is out to conspire against him.

Some days, when all he wants is to sink into the warm embrace of his duvet (never mind the responsibilities he has), are when his conscious turns against him, reminding him of all the wrongs he’s ever done.

Never the rights.

Never the rights.

It’s these days when talking to people seems like a chore, which makes him feel so much worse, he sees them, he hears them with a plastic smile on his face, he can’t help but wonder if they have plastic smiles on too.

He can’t tell the reality from his mind’s fabrications, that whisper to him the inadequacies of his being, in broad daylight, in the middle of conversation, in the middle of a serve.

He hates going to volleyball practices on these evenings, he knows he’s going to mess up. It’s as if his ears are attuned to others’ conversations, as if knowingly mocking his insecurities that have made homes out of the crevices in his body, his ventricles, his joints, his fluid-filled eyeballs that threaten to spill over as tears. His body that refuses to move to his commands, his body that feels so much heavier than the sky that Atlas must bear. He wonders what he did to endure this punishment.

He hates the thing he loves most because even though he knows he is invaluable in planning strategies for games, he’s a lost cause on such days. His absolute worst is not something he wants to share with the world because no matter what people think of him, Oikawa is a private person. He hears his name in conversation, and bites down on the words he means to say. They turn bitter and venomous on his tongue, threatening to choke him right then.

He skips practice.

Again.

And again.

(He can’t help it.)

He looks at the bathroom mirror. Tiny, like Tooru feels.

He looks at leaden brown eyes instead of the blue-and-yellow volleyball in mid-air. at ashen skin instead of wooden floors echoing with squeaks and creaks. At limp hands at his sides instead of limbs in position to receive any spikes cast his way. At a mouth in a straight line instead of playful pouting or smiling with delight.

He can’t look anymore, his vision is turning grainy and nebulous. Maybe he does need glasses.

He goes to bed even though there’s still light outside. Sleep, he decides, is the safest option. Maybe his brain will shut up.

He discovers a flaw in his play as soon as his head touches the pillow. His body may feel exhausted but his mind is ever vigilant, unwilling, resisting even, the active attempts to quieten it down. Oikawa suddenly is aware of his own breathing. He finds it disconcerting.

Turning the other way round, twisting his duvet around his legs trying to get comfortable, he squeezes his eyes shut.

It does not work.

He supposes he should get up and make something to eat. His stomach craves milk bread, optimal comfort food, but his little gray cells war against that idea, fleetingly scolding him for thinking of himself. _Selfish_ , they say, _what will your team say? Aren’t you an athlete on a strict diet? Aren’t you saving up for Iwaizumi’s birthday?_

He counts the minutes to sundown. It seems like an eternity has passed when he hears it. He buries his head under the pillow, groaning when he realizes he’s going to have to get up extra early to style it tomorrow. _Selfish_. The whispers increase in volume to screams, to shouts. _Manipulative. Egocentric. Tactless_. The volley of insults is nothing like volleyball that he can deflect, each hits home with a lasting sting. Oikawa makes space within himself. He hopes his insecurities are comfortable in his presence.

“Oikawa?”

He forgot to close his door, didn’t he.

“Why are you home? Don’t tell me you skipped practice again.”

He pretends to be asleep, hoping Iwaizumi will fall for the act and move along. He doesn’t want to burden him, doesn’t want to be selfish, doesn’t want—

“I know you’re awake, asshole. At least tell me why you’ve been skipping. You love volleyball, Tooru.”

It wasn’t a question, and Oikawa knows Iwaizumi like his own demons. He used to joke that Iwaizumi was his own personal demon, terrorizing his poor self. He’s sure now he’s the real monster, wearing a pretty mask he’s too terrified to take off, he knows it’s the only way—

“Tooru.”

“Iwa-chan! You’re home! Didn’t hear you there.” Fake smile? Check. Deflecting aimed questions? Check.

“Tooru.”

Oikawa hasn’t noticed Iwaizumi sitting down next to him, searching for his hand under the duvet.

“You’re overthinking again, aren’t you.”

Oikawa hasn’t noticed the tears forming wayward tracks down his face, either.

“Tooru, you _have_ to tell me what’s going on. All you see are your flaws, but you’re hell fucking bent on negative introspection, picking yourself up only to tear yourself down, finding faults in the tiniest things. 

Take a good look at your insecurities and shroud them with the belief in yourself. Burn them with your fiery confidence, with the flames you’ve been gulping down every time you do something well. Watch them burn away into ashes that are no use to you.

Burn, burn bright, like the stars we’ve watched since we were kids because I know you can, you will. The adjectives you describe yourself with will turn into nameless constellations, fading away. They’re no use to you, Tooru, not anymore.

In this life, you only have yourself. Remember that. But also remember that I am here when you need me, you only have to call out.”

Iwaizumi’s completely serious when he says this. He gets up to leave, and Oikawa is plunged into his sea of ice cold thoughts. Screwing his eyes shut he imagines himself start to ignite and smolder and _incinerate_ the whispers that crowd his mind. He sets them ablaze and suddenly, he’s above it.

Suddenly, he can breathe again.

Suddenly, the dark clouds eclipsing his vision clear.

Suddenly, a slice of milk bread is pushed into his hands.

“Eat.” Is all he hears.

And he obeys. Fresh tears map his face, and gentle thumbs brush them away.

It’s dark outside, but Oikawa’s mind is considerably lighter because of the person in front of him. His absolute weakness and simultaneous source of invincibility.

A kiss on the forehead. Soothing words of encouragement and affection are murmured. Drifting off, he thinks that perhaps volleyball is second to Iwaizumi on his list of favorite things.

**Author's Note:**

> hey frenz I hope u like this! let me know what you think!
> 
> (also hmu at my tumblr [here ](http://cosmogonalley.tumblr.com))


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